


The Beast of the Labyrinth

by cellostiel



Series: KC Writes About Greek Mythology [2]
Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore
Genre: Background Relationships, Blood and Injury, Body Dysphoria, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Menstruation, Minor Character Death, Murder, Not Relationship-Centric, Polyamory, Prose Poem, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Toxic Masculinity, Trans Female Character, Trans Greek Gods, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:28:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24799207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellostiel/pseuds/cellostiel
Summary: Things are different in the labyrinth.There are no human eyes watching you with fear and hate,There is only you,Kept alive for reasons you can't comprehend,Cursing the gods that created you, who now won't let you die,Cursing the hateful eyes that stare back at you from your drinking water.Then the feasts start.~The story of Asterion, the Minotaur, through his life and beyond.A prose poem about monsters, men, and what lies within.
Relationships: Ariadne & Asterion the Minotaur (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Ariadne/Dionysus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Asterion the Minotaur (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)/Original Character(s)
Series: KC Writes About Greek Mythology [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2014429
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	The Beast of the Labyrinth

**Author's Note:**

> Haha comparing the tags on this one to my Medusa poem.... WOW this has a lot more warnings! The violence is mostly at or below the level of the original myths, so mostly cw for dysphoria and fucked up notions of what it means to be a man. 
> 
> Also: I'm transmasc myself, but what I have written here is wholly different from my own experience of transness, so please let me know if I've accidentally written something totally insensitive or something.
> 
> Anyway, please heed the tags/warnings, but otherwise: enjoy!

They say. when she first saw you, your mother screamed,

Or maybe it was the midwife, or your mother's handmaid,

You were just an infant then, so there is no memory of it that you can claim as your own,

Just second- and third- and fourth-hand accounts,

Rumors spread and elaborated on until they become unrecognizable. 

Whoever it was that screamed, they fainted on sight.

It must not have been your mother, you think, since you remember your mother trying with you,

She nursed you, tried to love you,

She may have even begun to believe her own lies.

But you feel how others see you:

A beast;

An abomination;

A plague upon the house of Minos.

Your father- 

(he is not your father; he is a man who is married to your mother, who sired your half-siblings, and your true father is a bull)

-he puts up with you because you are Poseidon's punishment,

But you see it in his eyes:

The resentment;

The hatred;

The disgust. 

You watch men fight,

For power,

For glory,

They claim noble reasons, but you can see the truth:

There is a hunger in their eyes as they cut their foes down,

There is a thrill that no one will admit to,

There is a sick satisfaction in letting your rage guide your sword through your opponent's chest.

Horns sprout from your head;

People look at you with surprise and a new horror,

You think about plunging your horns into their guts,

Goring them until you stop seeing red.

Food stops satisfying your hunger,

Your skin feels wrong, but not in the way people expect:

Your bull's head gives you solace,

Comforted by the horns that shouldn't be,

And you wear it all with a pride you don't quite understand. 

No, it is the rest of you that you want to rip away,

The human pieces that do not belong,

That came to you when you did not want them.

You tried, once, beseeching the gods,

Maybe Poseidon, you thought, the god that orchestrated your conception.

The blood flows hot between your legs, and the gods are silent:

They are not here for monsters such as you.

A man sees you for the first time and shouts in fear.

He draws his weapon and you sink -

Your claws into his abdomen;

Your teeth into his neck;

Your fury into his flesh;

And your hunger is abated.

Days later, your hunger comes back.

You feast again,

Each time the hunger comes back,

Quicker and quicker,

Until it is insatiable.

You look at the human man that once tolerated you,

That once could stomach calling himself your father.

Blood drips hot down your chin, and you ask,

"Isn't this how a man is supposed to be?"

Things are different in the labyrinth. 

There are no human eyes watching you with fear and hate,

There is only you,

Kept alive for reasons you can't comprehend,

Cursing the gods that created you, who now won't let you die,

Cursing the hateful eyes that stare back at you from your drinking water.

Then the feasts start.

The first human you catch, a woman that falls to her knees and begs you to be swift,

You don't kill her, not yet.

She tells you of the arrangement between Athens and Crete,

How your father-

(your real father; your bull father)

-killed one of Minos' sons.

Good, you think.

You send the woman back out into the maze:

If you see her again, you will eat her.

You tell her this, but as she scrambles away, you notice,

You aren't very hungry.

You find another one of the sacrifices later,

Strewn across the ground,

Cold. 

Dead.

Misery etched into his face.

You wonder if there are kinder ways to die.

You begin to hunt.

Day after day, you hunt and you feast, until all the sacrifices are gone,

And you wait for them to be replenished next year. 

You find no pleasure in this.

If it were up to you, they would leave you here to rot.

But they keep sending sacrifices,

Seven men, seven women, year after year,

And you are tired,

So tired.

A man cowers before you,

You tell him it is better this way,

But as you go to strike him down,

You find that you cannot.

I should be easy, you think.

You have done this nearly a hundred times now,

But you are tired.

You do not want to do this,

What has this man ever done to you?

He is afraid. That is all. He does not know any better.

You lower your fists

Instead, you extend your hand.

"Let me take you somewhere warm," you say,

He is reluctant; wary,

But eventually he follows you to the center of the maze,

To where you have made some semblance of a home.

You have little to offer him; there is a grove in the heart of the maze,

With a single tree that grows branches as quick as you can take them,

A small pond of drinking water and fish,

And a patch of mushrooms that grow rapidly and abundantly. 

You kindle a fire and catch a fish for the human to eat,

He keeps looking at you as though this is a trap,

As though you are just fattening him up for a better meal.

You make him bedding, and in the night, he sneaks away.

You wake to a cold fire, alone.

You're not sure what you expected.

For some reason, you do it again. 

A pair of humans, this time, 

Two women that cling to each other.

You show them to the grove, offer them food and bedding,

"You are safe here," you tell them. 

They seem to believe you, breaking down in tears of relief.

When you wake the next morning, they have already started a fire for breakfast,

They admit they do not know what, or  _ if _ you eat, but they have scrounged together a stew,

And they hope you will join them for their meal. 

You extend your hand to others you find.

Some refuse, out of fear or disgust or hate,

Some are long gone by the time you find them,

But a few of those still alive take your hand.

There aren't many in the grove, even after years and years,

But those that are here look at you strangely, something unlike fear on their faces,

Those that have been here the longest seem to not fear you at all,

And gaze upon you with expressions you have never seen before. 

Or at least, expressions you have never seen directed at  _ you. _

The way that some of them look at you, it scares you with how gentle it is,

You feel… soft. Like the thin skin of your human parts,

It is strange, to not feel like bullhide. 

One of the humans tries to kiss you,

But you find that you cannot. 

Something stops you, something deep within you that is dark and terrible and  _ scared. _

"Okay." the human says. "If you ever change your mind… the offer is open." 

You're not sure what changes, or how it does,

But you find yourself gravitating towards some of the humans,

Seeking out their company, their comfort.

Sometimes they ask you to touch them, and sometimes you give them that,

Still, something keeps you from letting them touch you back,

Some dark part of you still resentful of your human parts,

The thought of anyone touching them like that bringing bile to your throat.

A few of the humans are hurt by this, but others seem to understand,

Most are content to go along with it, finding other ways to show you their affection.

This is nice, you realize.

Your life, for the first time you can remember, is good.

You are something like happy. 

The next feast arrives, and one of the humans comes wielding string and a sword,

Gifts from your sister.

You remember her, vaguely: Ariadne.

She was like you, in some ways, if opposite.

You think that she was kind,

Perhaps too kind.

Theseus brandishes his sword, and

You can see it in his eyes:

The hate, the fury.

He is here to kill you, and nothing will stop him from completing his quest.

Very well.

But you will not go down without a fight.

Your horns sink into his shoulder, his arm; he roars in pain and rage,

His sword sinks into your chest, straight through your heart,

He kicks you away from him, and you fall to the ground, landing in the dust,

He stands over you, chest heaving, blood running thickly down his side,

He is victorious. 

He is a hero.

You are just a rampaging bull that he has slain.

You think about your grove, about the humans waiting for you there,

You wonder if the hero Theseus will feel remorse when he sees them,

If he will even care that the heart he skewered beat with compassion.

You look up at him, breathing your last, and ask

"Is this what a man is supposed to be?"

\---

Hermes takes you to the underworld. 

It is dark, and, left to your own devices, you wander.

You pass humans, countless humans;

Some you recognize,

Some you couldn't save,

Some you killed in cold blood.

Some of them deserved their deaths;

Many didn't.

You pass other beasts like you,

Slain by other heroes,

Left to their miserable fates. 

You are facing down eternity like this, but then:

"Asterion."

Your name, the one you chose,

Cast aside by all when you became the Minotaur, the beast of the labyrinth.

Ariadne stands before you, her face cast in sorrow,

You only have to look at her for a moment to know:

Theseus left her for dead. 

Tears stain her cheeks and she sobs her apology,

You hold her as she begs your forgiveness:

"The sacrifices he brought out of the maze, they told us everything," she says,

"Asterion- dear brother, I- I didn't know, I-"

In a soft, ashamed whisper, she says "I thought I was doing you a kindness."

You tighten your hold of her, telling her a simple truth:

You never blamed her in the first place.

Her husband comes for her:

A god.

Dionysus, with his dark ringlets and smooth face,

And a body that resembles yours, but darker skinned and with fading scars on his chest.

He has come to take Ariadne to Olympus,

But he turns to you,

And extends his hand.

"My dear wife's dear brother," he says, "would you like to join us?"

You hesitate; the gods have never done you any favors before,

But your sister puts her hand in yours and looks at you,

With an expression that is now so familiar.

You soften, and you take the god's hand.

Things are different on Mt. Olympus. 

Your sister is there, and her husband, and they treat you like-

Like family;

Like a person.

You lock eyes with Poseidon, once.

He looks at you for a few long moments,

Then he moves on.

"Us gods are just like that," Dionysus tells you later.

Maybe, you think, but it doesn't make it better.

Other gods are more approachable;

Like Apollo, whose body is also like yours,

Who somehow wears it with pride,

Lying in the sun, his skin glistening bronze,

Strumming his lyre and telling tales of mortals whose lives he has touched. 

He and his sister-

(proud Artemis, strong where Apollo is lithe, broad where he is thin)

-show you around Olympus; here, you see others like you, like your sister.

They are not always kind, per se-

(they  _ are _ gods, after all)

-but they do not look at you with fear or disgust,

And Artemis complements your horns with the gentle teasing of a friend.

The men here love strongly, abundantly, and with reckless abandon;

You are swept up in it all.

Apollo shows you his lyre, teaches you a few chords and a love of music;

Hephaestus shows you his forge, talks with you about bodies scorned and the beauty of a body well-loved by its owner;

Ares spars with you, shows you how to fight without rage and how to be proud of your strength.

On the hard nights, Dionysus appears with a flagon of wine,

And drinks with you until things are okay again. 

"This," you say, your veins buzzing with alcohol and what must surely, finally, be  _ happiness, _

"This is what a man should be." 


End file.
